


Hot and cold drabbles

by Urimaginarygirlfriend



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Collection of one shots, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Season 8, WW2 AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 15:23:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 9,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7807075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Urimaginarygirlfriend/pseuds/Urimaginarygirlfriend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabbles and one-shots from the A Song of Ice and Fire and Game of Thrones universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sharp blades and soft words

**Author's Note:**

> Jon x Sansa.
> 
> Set after the Battle of the Bastards, Jon is King in the North.
> 
> All scars heal with time. At least that is what they say.

The sun has barely risen when the Lady of Winterfell wakes and starts the day. It is a warm day, the sun is shining in beams through her windows, and the fireplaces are already roaring with bright flames. She has not put on her fine clothes, the dresses she uses for afternoon council meetings and feasts. She is wearing light, leather slippers and a soft, grey woollen dress.

She is almost floating through the halls on her way to Jon's chambers. Today they have nothing they must do, and they have the day to themselves . That is why when she opens his door-without knocking, as always-he is only half dressed. He's wearing his breaches, thankfully, but his shirt is still in his hands, waiting to be put on.

He doesn't notice her, quiet as she is, and it allows Sansa to look at his scars. They are so many, half moons and pierces where the daggers went through his skin and killed him. They are black and unhealed, slightly swelled and they must undoubtedly hurt, the kind of stinging pain coming in waves that Sansa can feel in her own scars.

Hers have healed quite well, but when she leans against the doorframe she can feel them on her hips and thighs. She supposes it must be different to be able to point to them and say that they killed you. Not only does he have to live with the fact that he was dead, but he walks around with the reminders on his body.

Still, dying can be looked upon as honourable, while nothing is honourable about the things her scars come from. She hides them well, wearing no dresses with low cleavages, always long sleeves. He doesn't need to, everyone knows why he has them, what they mean, and that he defeated them by coming back.

No one can say the same about her scars. She killed Ramsay, sure, but she had no hope of returning the favours he did her.

Jon has noticed her now, and looks surprised. "Sansa." He doesn't flinch at her presence, or her eyes fixed at his chest. "Jon." She has never seen them before, and he hasn't told her anything about what being dead has done to him.

"How are you today?" Sansa nods and takes a few steps closer. "Well. You?" Jon sighs. "Well, I suppose. I didn't get much sleep last night." Sansa nods again. She understands why, much too well. It is one of the things they have in common now.

He gives her a shy smile. These are his scars, and he isn't ashamed. She feels like she must give something in return. She's wearing a shirt underneath her dress today, there is one scar on her neck that this dress doesn't cover.

She lifts the edge of it and shows him. He looks at it, intrigued almost. She isn't scared to show it to Jon. He won't think any different of her if he sees them, not like the rest of the court would.

"What was it like?" Him asking her makes her heart swell a bit. He died, but he sees that things were bad for her too. "Degrading. Intrusive. Unfair. And you?" He swallows. "Cold. Enraging. Unfair." She nods.

She has never asked to see these scars, knowing full well that she would see them someday when he was ready. Her scars have been waiting to be seen by him for a long time now, but this is something they need to do together. They have chipped away the last piece of secrecy between them, a piece they have both been respectful of.

It is like a wound with a scab, the new skin underneath must heal before it can be revealed, and when it is it will leave a mark for a time, if not forever.

The casual way they do this is heartbreaking, but this are their lives now, and she has said the things she wanted to. In some nights she might have a nightmare, and when she comes to Jon she will tell him what she dreamed, so he can understand that too.

He puts on his doublet, but as he straps on his sword belt, the sound of leather against wool stabs into her ears and reminds her of another man, another room, another time.

And there it is, the sadness, the pain, the sorrow. Sansa's knows she will cry, and that she should probably find a place to be alone so her weakness won't show to the whole castle. The hollowness clings to her chest, and drags her down to the point that she fears she will fall.

Her emotions are showing plainly on her face, and in the moment she remembers Jon is there with her, she sees on his face that he knows what is happening. His face is begging her to stay, it promises that she doesn't have to deal with all of this alone. But it is the hint of desperation in his eyes saying he doesn't 'want' her to leave that makes her run and fling her arms around his neck.

"We'll take care of each other," she says, clinging to the words like it's the only thing she has left. "Always," he murmurs into her ear, but that isn't true. The time they have here is only elusive, and will soon be outside of her grasp. She tears her head away from his shoulder and looks into his eyes, trying to settle herself in the grey oceans there. She is shaking her head, she realises, she is shaking it back and forth and muttering 'no' over and over again.

He puts a hand on her cheek and says: "I won't leave you. Never." That is wrong too. "No, Jon, you don't understand, you 'have' to leave me," she begs while she brings their foreheads together, "and please don't say otherwise, because I might just try to believe you." He hesitates a moment, but then he nods solemnly, and pulls her closer again.

They tear apart again much to soon for her liking, for after a few short few minutes a servant comes to lay claim to the King. "Ser Davos wishes to speak to you immediately, your grace." Jon kisses her forehead before he goes, and Sansa wonders if she will bear making their goodbye, when she's sure this one is ripping out her heart.


	2. What we have left

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon x Sansa, set before the war against the Others

It was late. Jon was close to falling asleep in his chair before the hearth, and he could feel his eyes slipping shut. The fire in front of them had reduced to embers, and the light flickered dimly over them. Sansa had put away her embroideries, and sat staring into the fire like him, but the empty look on her face told him something was wrong. Or perhaps she was tired. It seemed everyone was tired these days.

Small wonder, when all they have been doing the past weeks is searching for men and weapons and attending endless counsel meetings. Sansa has a heavy weight on her shoulders, and all the sleepless nights because of nightmares have taken their toll too. Still her words surprise him.

"We weren't supposed to be here."

He looks at her, searching for something to explain her words. Her face stays plain. "We weren't supposed to be here." Jon is confused. What is she talking about? Despite his silence, Sansa continues.

"It was supposed to be Father and Mother and Robb, not us. I keep asking myself what they would have done, but most of the time I haven't the slightest idea."

Jon stirred before he replied. "Fath- Eddard and Lady Catelyn wouldn't know what to do either, if it gives any consolation. The only other time someone led a war against the Others was 8000 years ago. They would be as frustrated as us, if not more."

Sansa sighs. "I know. But I still feel like a child in every counsel meeting. It's like nothing makes sense anymore, everything is so uncertain. We know almost nothing of our enemy. We have no idea what we are doing. Nothing ever seems to be enough."

She is right, there is no right way to do this. It's impossible to tell if they have done something wrong. It's all up to them now. Only time will tell if they've done this correctly.

"But it's _we_ who are here now. It's easy to run away, but we have a duty. We have to save these people. It's hard, Sansa, I know, and we still might not make it, but... We have to try."

Sansa's eyes suddenly look glassier in the light from the hearth, and Jon thinks he might see her shaking just a bit. "I know. And I don't want to leave. I want to win. But sometimes, I just... I feel so lonely. No matter how many people are there I can't relax or have fun because everyone seem to think we know what we are doing. They think we have good odds. No one understands."

"I do," Jon says, and he takes her hand in his. "You can always talk to me, Sansa. About anything. And if there is something I don't understand you have to help me do so. I don't want you to be lonely." She deserves better than loneliness, especially now, when all they have left is each other.

A single tear runs down her cheek and glistens in the fire-light, and Sansa gives him a hopeful smile. She rarely smiles anymore, only for him. Her smiles are careful, like they could be ruined in a second. He loves them all the same.

"Alright." She squeezes his hand, and suddenly the room feels a little warmer. She is strong, and he has no doubt she could have been lonely without breaking. She has been before. But she doesn't need to now. They have each other.

He watches the embers flicker and die out even further, but her hold on his hand is firm. She doesn't want him to leave. So he doesn't.

They sit in front of the fire, hands intertwined, and just before he falls asleep he thinks that if all they have left is each other, maybe that is enough.


	3. Something like Gods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa get secretly married at the Wall before the War of the Dawn.

She wakes up before dawn, her head pillowed on his chest. She kisses a trail up to his ear, and as he slowly comes to his senses he remembers who he is, and exactly who is in his bed. A lazy grin finds it's way to his face, and Sansa whispers softly into his ear. "I love you, Jon," she says, and Jon kisses her forehead. "I love you too, Sansa."

He can feel her smile against his shoulder, and when she says it it isn't more than a mumble, yet the words ring clear in his head.

"Marry me then."

...  
...

Her horse is white, and so is everything else, the only other colours than the white of her skin and the snow surrounding her is the black of her dress and the red of her hair. The Wall looms behind them, their only witness as dawn slowly breaks.

She rides effortlessly, her back straight and the mare in a steady gallop, making the wind catch in her hair, sending it flying like a curtain behind her, and the edge of her dress flaps impatiently.

She is the black mountains beyond the Wall, covered in white snow with rivers flowing like bluish veins along her skin. She is the weirwoods come to life, her red hair like a thousand soft, red leaves and her skin pale and smooth as bark.

She is harder than steel, sharper than a blade and colder than ice, still she melts when she is with him, and she burns with a fire so warm, Jon suspects only one person in this world could possess at a time.

She looks like more than a Queen, like a Goddess, and Jon thinks he has worshipped her ever since her hand first found his and she looked into his eyes.

Those eyes find his now, and across the planes he can hear her shout, though her words are swallowed by the wind somewhere between them. Still he sets his horse in gallop after her, catching up with her just before they enter the woods, and riding beside her until the weirwoods start making shape along the clearing.

They climb off and their hands intertwine, and he feels more like himself with her soft skin touching him and her breath coming out as a ghost in the air beside him.

They are a force to be reckoned with, two people becoming one to do better in this world, for themselves and everyone else. The face of the weirwood watches over them, and as they kneel in front of it, Jon feels the presence of the Gods. The sun is just rising, and the rays of light find their way to Sansa, catching in her hair and illuminating her face, and she looks so peaceful with her eyes closed, her hair tumbling over her shoulders and along her pale neck. Jon thinks there can't possibly be anything more perfect than her in this world.

She smiles, and Jon takes that back, for she is perfect when she is _happy _.__

__They say their words and seal them with a kiss, and ride back on the same horse. The watchers on the Wall blows the horn at their return, and the gates open with a scream._ _

__They ride through the Wall in silence, and into the courtyard where people have started to gather for their King's return. As the horse stops to a halt in the middle of the yard, Jon jumps off and then helps Sansa down. He holds her hand, and nods towards Sam, who is coming towards him with a pillow in his hands._ _

__As the horse is lead away by a stable boy, Sam approaches carefully, and kneels to give Jon access to the crown. It is made of valyrian steel, polished and inserted with blue emeralds from Tarth that match her eyes. Sam found it hidden in a vault in the worm ways, and it is most likely a forgotten piece of jewellery from Queen Alysanne. It is simple, but it is the only thing Jon can imagine for Sansa. Strong, yet beautiful, and ice cold._ _

__She kneels and lowers her head, and Jon places the crown on her head. Then she stands, and Jon takes her hand again. "All kneel for the King and Queen in the North, the King and Queen of Winter, the Lady and Lord of Winterfell," Sam proclaims, and Jon finds it easy to see how people think of them as Gods._ _

__She looks the part, crown on her head, back straight and shoulders squared, no emotions playing on her face and ice in her eyes. But as his eyes finds hers, she softens, and gives him a hopeful smile. It is enough to send Jon grinning like a fool, and they make their way inside to break their fast._ _


	4. Fluffy rays of sunshine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This out-fluffs anything I've ever written before.

"The kitchen cat had kittens last month," Sansa says to Jon one night, as they get ready for bed. "Oh. I didn't know we had a kitchen cat." Why something like this bothers Sansa is beyond him, but she rarely brings up things without intention. "There is only one left now."

Her pleading look as she lays down doesn't get past him, and he sighs when he joins her in the bed. "Lyarra is four." Sansa looks unpleased. "Rickon had Shaggydog at six." He realises Sansa has set her mind on this, and he knows that fighting with his wife is one thing he never does quite well.

"Fine. But if the cat is bad it'll join it's mother in the kitchens again." Sansa gives a triumphant smile, and after she blows out the light on their nightstand, she says " _She_ won't join her mother in the kitchen. She's as innocent as a lamb."

Sansa's obviously had this in mind for a while, and Jon rolls his eyes for it. But it's such a typical thing for Sansa to do that he can't help but smile. "And I'll tell her," he says, as a last compromise, and Sansa's eyes fill with excitement, and Jon wonders who this kitten is really for.

...  
...

She can hear her daughter's bare feet pad against the floors in the hall long before her head peaks through the door, and Sansa bids her to enter. Her daughter is pure wonder, grey eyes wide and breath heavy, red her tousled from her strive to get here as fast as she can. Jon enters behind her, eyes glowing and lips spread into a grin reaching from ear to ear.

Sansa is sitting on the floor, the kitten in her lap, and her daughter moves slowly towards them. The kitten is sweet, black with white feet and face, with soft fur she knows Lyarra will love. "Is it mine?" her daughter asks carefully, as if she's just been presented with the all the worlds riches.

"Yes," Sansa answers, and when her daughter stops, unsure of what to do with herself, she motions for her to sit down in front of her. She does so quickly, startling the kitten, and Lyarra bites her lower lip. Sansa then puts the kitten in her lap, and takes Lyarra's hands to show her how to pet it and scratch behind its ears.

"She's perfect," she coos after a while, completely taken aback by the soft, little creature. Jon joins them on the floor, and Sansa's hand finds his. Lyarra looks up at them like they've given her the world, and says a soft "Thank you," overwhelmed with emotion as she is. Jon squeezes Sansa's hand, and Sansa smiles, trying to grasp the notion that she and this man made the lovely, little girl in front of them.


	5. The heavens are falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm tired of feeling like I'm living by chance."

She remembered once when she was just a little girl, and they had all sat at old Nan's feet listening to stories. She was four, maybe five, and the last snowstorm of the winter was raging in the North. She remembers not being able to see through the windows, being told to stay inside at all times.

She remembers wearing thick cloaks and wools inside, and sleeping under furs piled so tall her Father told her a bear must have gone into hibernation on top of her while she slept.

Robb had wondered how anyone could manage through a storm like this outside the Walls of Winterfell, and Old Nan had told about the Wildlings. She spoke of savages living in tents and wearing furs, with no manners or laws.

Sansa had been shocked at that, with her courtesies being irreplaceable to her even then, and Nan had told her about the spearwives, women who fought in battles besides men, trained in axes and bows and spears.

She told about the Wildlings who climbed the Wall and ravaged the villages nearby, how they ruthlessly killed everyone and everything in their way, how they stole women and killed babies and burned the homes of the people they'd killed.

Before Sansa went to sleep that night, as Old Nan tucked her in, she had asked her if the Wildlings would ever come for them. "No, my sweet child," she had said, "no Wildlings go as far South as Winterfell. They will not trouble you, my dear." Sansa remembered Nan had tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear then. "Besides, little Lady, the Wildlings say that those born with red hair are kissed by fire. It means you are lucky."

Sansa had simply nodded, and drifted off the second she closed her eyes.

And then everything had fallen apart.

She can see the scars her enemies have given her now, she can see their faces as they tortured her. She can see their dead faces too. What she cannot see is the danger that looms ahead, that hangs over her like a dark cloud and make what could be happy days a miserable anguish.

She should be terrified, but she is too tired to be, and that scares her even more. As she walks through empty halls and dark rooms she feels lonelier than she ever felt in King's Landing or The Eyrie, now that she has things greater than her to fear. Her abusers had all been human, no matter how cruel; they had human desires, human reflexes, human ways to be. Human means that she can understand.

But not this time. She has no hope to understand the Others, what they want or why. All she knows is that they want her and the only person she has left dead.

A chill runs down her spine, and she clutches the stone of a corner, letting the cold seep into her palms and the rough edges dig into her skin. She is still in this world, no matter how many times she forgets it.

She sighs, and moves forwards, determined to finish what she has started. She feels more like she stumbles than walks down the halls towards Jon's bedroom, where she knows he will wait for her.

People praise her, they tell her she is strong, even Jon who knows her best of all. None of them see how hollow she is, how the only thing that is keeping her alive is a man that can't carry his burdens alone.

And luck.

The reminder makes her clench her jaw and take a sharp breath, because she is so tired of that thought that she cannot begin to comprehend how it still haunts her.

Ever since Joffrey killed her father at the steps of the Sept, she has lived at others' mercy or feigned care. Never has she been in control of her own destiny, never has she had any say in what she is to do.

Not until Jon, but now she is living on lent time again, for there is no way she could possibly have any chance to influence this war.

It grinds her down until all she feels is miserable, how she is only living because she had luck on her side. Her family has suffered by the lack of it, dead every one of them except the one that was lucky enough to be resurrected.

Jon is in bed, as she knew he would be, and he doesn't even stir when she climbs into the bed next to him.

He says nothing, does nothing, but she can hear his breaths becoming calmer, her very presence making him feel better. She sighs, wishing she could say the same. But not until she has lifted this weight off her chest.

She is lying straight in the bed, arms wrapped around herself, staring up at the ceiling. Jon notices. "Can't sleep?" He murmurs, voice gruff. "No," she answers, "I can't."

"Do you want to talk?" Jon asks, as he turns to face her, and rubs the sleep out of his eyes. "Yes." He blinks at her, anticipating. "Then please do so."

She turns towards him too, and takes one of his hands. She closes her eyes, and says softly, almost like a whisper: "I'm tired of living by chance."

He squeezes her hand, and the warmth of it rushes through her arm and goes right to her head. She realises her hand is trembling, her mouth quivering. The simplicity of it all is making her feel odd; the only thing present is life and death, Jon and her, her body and his.

"I know," he says, "I feel so too," and Sansa thinks that no, he can't possibly feel the same as her. She tries not to raise her voice, and fails miserably. "How? You've kept alive all by yourself. You made a life for yourself at the Wall, you where independent, you made decisions all on your own. You could fight for yourself, and what can I do? Sit and watch as you fight for me, waiting for my fate? I'm powerless, Jon, when it comes to the cut, I can't fight and I can't lead, and if this is the end of you, then it is the end of me too."

His eyes are glassy and wide, searching her face for something she doesn't know, and his hand flexes uncomfortably in hers. She doesn't let it go. His face only turns sadder, his mouth quivering and eyes brimmed with tears until one falls down his nose.

She wipes it away, hates to see him so sad. It's like her touch triggers something in him, and suddenly he's sobbing, and he puts his arms around her and pulls her into him, putting their foreheads together.

She tries to soothe him, hushing and rubbing away his tears that fall in a steady stream, but it isn't working. "No, don't cry, it's not your fault, I, I-I'm sorry, so sorry..." It all crumbles away to nothing, for she's crying too, and it's so sad, all of it, worse than she thought.

She can't stand seeing Jon sad for something he can't help. She frames his face with her hands and forces him to look at her. "No, Jon, listen, this isn't your fault. You can't change the world for me." He's finally calming down, and he's tightening his arms around her, pulling her head under his chin.

"I just wish I could." She can feel his heart slowing down when she says: "I know."

Out of all the men in the world, Jon is the exception, the one who loves her as his equal. To all other men she is just a possible wife, a title, a castle and a womb, not an actual human being. To Jon she is first of all herself, Sansa, an independent person that has opinions of her own. And he loves her the more for it.

"You're not the problem, Jon. It's everyone else. Things will be better now. Here I have power over myself, not like it was in the South. Girls don't play the great game, and I'm not a girl anymore, though I was until I met you. It was a different time, a different place, but all these horrors... They take me back to that helpless feeling again and I hate it so much." The last of her tears slip down her cheeks, and Jon's arms are holding her steady.

"I hate it too. But the war is not lost. There is still much we can do. There is still much to believe in. Do you believe, Sansa? That we can win this war?" She waits a second, feeling the answer is truer than she could have imagined. "I believe in _you_ Jon."

He kisses her forehead and sighs. She feels alone, like she's in a blizzard and not seeing anything around her, neither enemies nor friends, but it does not feel so bad when Jon is holding her.

She wishes they could stay like this, holding each other, worries pushed away until the sun rises. It does not feel so bad, she thinks, when she has someone beside her against the world.


	6. Grey

She walks the castle day and night, devoid of pease, quiet as a mouse.

She feels like a ghost; pacing the grey halls with her black skirts reaching out behind her. Her hair unbound and tousled, her fingers fidgeting with her dress. She feels empty, the castle feels empty, stripped of the happiness it once was drenched in.

One time she finds Jon, cutting a corner and standing just a few meters away from her. The air is cold and silent, completely still. She can see his breath fogging in front of his face, thinking he looks like a ghost too, grey eyes, black hair, pale face, all bundled up in a dark cloak.

He nods to her, averting his eyes, and she nods back.

It's a mutual understanding, that this isn't right, not like it should be. They've done so much, but it still feels hollow, and they both know it. Jon understands her, when she finds that the sight of the grey yards make her feel heavy, when her eyes start twitching when she sees her scars.

He understands when her nightmares make her scream at night, and she falls asleep in his comforting arms. He understands when she says that she loves him, for he is all she has that is not completely grey in this world.

She doesn't understand when he says he loves her back, for how can someone love something so broken? She doesn't feel like she is worthy of his love, like he doesn't know what he's talking about.

She has made her mistakes, and know she must pay. She didn't appreciate her home as a child, and now she will live in it, broken and abandoned as it is. She only ever treated Jon badly, and now she loves him. While Jon only treated her the best he dared, and she doesn't deserve his forgiveness.

So he whispers in her ear, all the reasons he loves her, why she is worth loving, why she should love herself. She almost believes him, but it is enough, for it seems Jon has made up his mind to love her.


	7. Red wolves and white dragons (moved)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm planning on writing more of this story, so I've moved it here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/10167539/chapters/22586573

Yeah. Like I said, this story is moved.


	8. Suns and Princes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna x Elia. Instead of putting Lyanna in the Tower of Joy, Rhaegar takes her to meet is other wife.

Lyanna could cry the first time she meets Elia. Rhaegar has decided she and Elia will be safer in King's Landing, and that is where they are headed. She's beautiful, strong, kind. Herself. Everything Lyanna aspires to be. The person with the most reason in the world to resent her.

Lyanna never meant to escape with her husband. It was never her intention to bring shame over Elia and her family. But she thinks Elia can understand. Hopes she knows what it is to not be your own person. She begs to the old Gods for her forgiveness.

(She begs the old Gods to stop whatever it is they're doing, because she has no business looking at Elia as much as she does.)

Elia doesn't talk to her when they are left in the Red Keep. She is silent; warm, brown eyes studying her. Somehow, Elia's eyes are what feels most like home in the entire castle. It doesn't make sense, and Lyanna knows it. But it's the only thing she can hold onto.

Elia is the one by Rhaegar's right side when they feast for the return of the Prince and his wives to the capitol, Lyanna by his left. She is the second wife, and everyone sees. Lyanna knows she is an intruder. But she doesn't mind, as long as she can sit beside her husband. As long as people know she is still there.

Oberyn, Elia's brother, comes to visit them after Rhaegar leaves to fight. Lyanna is in the gardens when their paths cross. She can see the rage in his eyes as soon as he understands who she is. "You!" he shouts, walking briskly towards her, Elia hesitating behind him. Lyanna can't make herself move. She could stand strong against any man, but not Oberyn. Not when she has done everything he hates her for.

"How dare you dishonour my sister?! Hah?!" He is grabbing after her arm, and Lyanna feels panic rushing through her, but Elia takes his hand before it reaches her. "Brother," she says, and pulls him away from her, holding his jaw to force him to look at her. Lyanna knows he could shake her off in an instant, but he doesn’t. This is the kind of power Elia holds. The kind of command Lyanna wants most, and never will have. 

Elia is cool, determined. Her voice is low and intent, her eyes searching him, wanting him to listen. "Oberyn. She is a frightened, young girl. Just like I was. Don't do things you do not mean." Oberyn looks at Lyanna again. Lyanna almost thinks he's going to do pull free, to rush at her anyway. "Walk away," Elia says in that smooth voice of hers, and Oberyn looks at her. Something about the look on her face makes him follow her bidding.

He runs off, and Elia soon stalks after him. Lyanna is left all alone in the gardens. She can't understand why Elia defended her. She can't understand why Oberyn listened. She can't understand how there are people here who do not wish her ill.

Rhaegar is gone when she finds out she is with child. Elia is the first one she tells.

She cries, and she damns herself for it. Is she so weak? But Elia sees her terror, she helps her. Her voice is sweet and calm, flowing through her and into her blood. She takes her to the maester, she invites her to sit in her solar. She advises her on what dresses to wear, what to do and how to act. "Why?" Lyanna asks, tears drying on her cheeks. "Why do you tell me this?"

Elia sighs. "Because you are not an awful person. I do not have it in me to hate you. So I will help you instead."

Lyanna takes Elia's hand and squeezes. She gives a sad smile, and Elia gives one back. From that day on, they are friends.

They are seen everywhere together. Rhaegar walks first, his Queens behind him, whispering to each other and giggling under their breaths. They walk the gardens with the children, they ride in the same carriage.

There are whispers. No one had expected this, least of all them. But Elia is what makes King's Landing tolerable for Lyanna. She is fully convinced she wouldn't have lasted without her.

Lyanna is raised in the honest, practical, northern fashion. Her first weeks in the Red Keep are horrible. Elia is her saviour.

But Elia is different from the other Ladies, too. She's from Dorne, where the conflicts are open and the snakes do not take human form without letting the world know. Elia knows how Lyanna is feeling, and that is more comfort than anything her husband could say.

Lyanna and the Prince discuss names. Her husband wants to call the child Alysanne, after his grandmother, and Lyanna knows there could be worse names. But she decides she will call her child Alys for short, so she'll be less constricted by the meaning of her name.

(Her name means 'The Fulfiller', Princess of the Seven Kingdoms, a child with a legacy of heroes and tyrants. No, she will give her daughter that freedom, at least when she is with her.)

Rhaenys loves Alys. She goes with them everywhere, bids her goodnight every evening before bedtime. "Sister," she says, and puts her small hands on Lyanna's stomach, "we will be the best of friends." Aegon, or Egg, as they call him since Lyanna told Elia the reason behind Alys' nickname, is sceptical at first, but soon comes around for the baby once he realises she will be born and start talking some day.

After Alys and Egg are given new names, Rhaenys wants one, too. They settle on Rey, and Rhaenys loves it. "Like rays of light," she says, and Elia's smile feels like sunshine.

Elia's Ladies in waiting are kind to her, and she soon finds herself in a group. Elia and Lyanna have tea almost every day with Ashara Dayne and Larra Blackmont. They spend a ridiculous amount of time laughing and talking, enough that Lyanna notices how amazing Elia looks when she smiles, how everything lights up when she does.

She finds herself unable to look away. She is always thinking of Elia, where she is, what she is doing, perhaps she would like for them to take Rhaenys out hawking someday? Lyanna starts smiling again, smiles when she feels her babe kick, smiles when she sees Rhaenys and Aegon discover something new, smiles when Elia is there.

Her husband shows little interest now that she has passed the time of greatest risk of losing the child. The little time he has for her is always focused on their babe. Is she healthy? Are you well? Always she, because he can't bear the thought of anything other than their child fulfilling a prophecy. And then he leaves again. Instead, it is Elia who teaches her how to be a mother.

She finds him distant. He is not the man she thought he was: so beautiful and kind, but rarely does he show those parts to her anymore. When she has their child, after a night of horrible pain and blood, he comes to her.

He smiles, weakly, but his first words for his newborn do not make sense to her at first. "Now the prophecy is fulfilled." There is a hint of bitterness to his voice, for it was not fulfilled the way he hoped.

Lyanna freezes. She realises the reason her husband is smiling is not for joy in their son, but for that bloody prophecy of his. She wants to scream at him, but she is too tired. Instead she takes her child back from him.

"There will be no more children," he says, and she couldn't agree more. "No more," she says, venom dripping from her words.

After reassurances from the maester that the child is healthy, her husband leaves contently after calling their child Jahaerys, Lyanna immediately dubbing him Jon in her head. Lyanna is alone, sourness warring with the deep, deep joy she finds in her son's grey eyes.

The next day a familiar voice wakes her up. "Lyanna?" It says, calmly, happily. Lyanna opens her eyes, and sitting beside her bed is Elia, smiling kindly down at her. Her eyes are warm and gentle. Lyanna finds herself smiling, too.

"Lya?" Another voice asks, and Lyanna and Elia point their attention towards the door. Rhaenys is poking her head inside, and Lyanna can glimpse her brother behind her. They are all wide eyes, curious faces. "Come in," Lyanna bids, and they walk over to the crib.

Elia helps her out of bed, and threads her arm through Lyanna's to help keep her steady. They all swarm around the new baby. Jon wakes up as Rey and Egg start whispering. "He is so small," Rhaenys whispers. Elia stretches a finger down to him, which he takes. Elia smiles. Lyanna looks at the sight before her.

Rey, Egg, Jon. Their children.

Elia. _Her sun._


	9. Now (moved)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’m turning this into a series, so i’ve moved it here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12890850

Yeah. Like I said, this story has been moved.


	10. By The Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theon x Sansa, WW2 Au. Theon comes back from war changed.

Theon had always been the obnoxiously arrogant one. His mother had died when he was young, his brothers both dead because they got in the wrong crowd, his father always treated him like the dirt under his shoe, and his sister had this strange disdain of him that no one could understand. And still he acted like a prick, as if his family’s recklessness ran through his blood.

She is sure now, that all that was a way of coping with his insecurities, towering high over him like an iceberg. He was already drowning, back then. He's done now, he keeps telling her. _What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger._ Something his uncle told him once, that stuck under his skin like the lining of his thoughts.

He came back different. They all did, the boys from the village who all agreed to enrol together. Theon was one of the few who came back. She'd found him at Robb's funeral, just out of the hospital, too skinny and too sad with tears on his face. Sansa had never seen him like that before.

"I should have saved him," he'd said, shaking in the pouring rain, clothes sticking to his skin, soaked to the bone. "I should have saved him." He repeated it like a mantra, and Sansa put her hand on his back, trying to comfort him, but he only flinched, and her mother gave her such a glaring look she didn't dare do it again.

The next time she saw him was months later. They'd just won the war, and everyone was celebrating in the town hall. Sansa had gone with Harry, the most popular boy in school, captain of the football team and bright like a Christmas tree. He was tall, blonde and strong, everything she thought she wanted. He decided to celebrate by getting drunk and calling her brother a long list of names despite Sansa begging him to stop, so she had stormed outside, right into Theon.

He'd been smoking, the glowing of his cigarette a sharp contrast against the blue summer night, cool grass and trees against warm orange. Theon's eyes had been shining, dark and deep like the ocean, and he'd asked her to sit down. She'd taken a drag of his cigarette on a whim, before she started coughing and decided she never wanted to try it again, and told Theon he should quit as a way of dismissing the concept entirely. As far as she knows, that was the last cigarette he ever smoked.

She'd told him all about Harry, and he'd asked if she wanted him to beat him up, but she declined. Theon still acted strange around sudden movements and sounds, ever since he came back with shell shock, but all that just made it more precious that he'd offered. Maybe that was why she'd cried into his shoulder and rested her head there, borrowed his handkerchief. He'd walked her home, standing awkwardly and blushing sweetly when she kissed his cheek goodnight.

He did better, next time. A while later they'd met in the park, and taken a stroll. They'd talked about Robb, and for the first time the clench in her chest hadn't been as painful as it used to be. Theon had made her laugh, even when she thought she'd never be able to. He told her she looked lovely, and outside her house he'd asked if he could kiss her. She had said yes, and the brief press of his lips against hers satisfied her a while.

But she needed more, and she knew it as soon as she saw him leave. Watching the broad lines of his shoulders grow smaller down the street, wild hair dark and blowing in the wind, hands in his pockets and sleeves rolled up, she'd known she'd marry him. She'd known that moment that she wanted dark eyes and sharp collarbones, nervous hands and a voice like oceans. She'd wanted him with everything left of her.

Her father had seen them, telling her mother and the both of them raging at her in the living room. But neither of them knew Theon, the one that came back, because he couldn't bear talking to them knowing he failed their son. The Stark house was too full of memories for him to bear remembering them.

Her father was swayed when she started crying, but her mother was more stubborn. It took the both of them some time and several awkward dinners for them to allow her to walk out with him, properly. Sansa used weeks convincing Theon to go back there, taking his face between her hands and making him look at her, needing him to understand. _You didn't kill Robb. It isn't your fault, and anyone who says so isn't worth talking to._

He made a habit of kissing her when he was nervous. He did it well, too, which only added to the warm feeling her belly, combined with the worry she always got from his hurried, caught-up kisses. His hands shake, sometimes. He does this thing where something happens, and he completely spaces out, until she takes his hand and talks to him calmly so he comes back.

They get married on a sunny day. Her family fills up three whole rows in the church, whilst Asha and a couple other cousins take a fifth of one, enthusiastic hollers erupting from their side once they are declared husband and wife. Theon smiles wider than she’s ever seen before.

Her dress is white lace, and she knows she spent too much money on it, but she knows how Theon likes pretty things. She feels pretty in it, too, which might be the real reason she chose it. Theon lifts her veil gently, kissing her softly, his palm pressing along her jaw and thumb ghosting over her chin. She shivers, and can't look away from him the rest of the night.

They live by the sea, now. Theon says he can't stand being away from it too long, and Sansa is happy, is relieved that she found her place, after all. Theon works at the local newspaper writing weather reports, detailed and systematic work that calms his nerves, and kisses her goodbye every morning before leaving. When she starts getting sick and unable to get out of bed, he makes breakfast himself, leaving her the couple pieces of toast he knows she would bear eating.

When her stomach starts swelling he always puts his hands over it protectively, like she's the most precious thing in the world and he doesn't deserve the treasure hidden inside her.

When he's born, their baby boy squeals so loudly Theon grows scared something is wrong, but other than that the child is as quiet as his father. Sansa always catches Theon holding him in the mornings when neither of them can sleep, walking around the living room with the light etched around them.

Sansa never feels happier than she does then, creeping up beside them and putting her arms around them both, her quiet boys, always soft and gentle and all she could ever ask for.


	11. The Winter Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon x Sansa. Sansa has to get used to Jon, and having Jon away from her.

His smile is gentle like a breeze, filled with the remnants of summer, but his presence weighs heavy like a wight's. Still, this man is seemingly as alive as her.

She isn't used to this. Men are supposed to be harsh, calculating and manipulating and _cruel_ , but not him. The memory of her father seems more like a dream to her now, and this man that is so much like him doesn't belong in the reality she lives in. Only, he does. Nothing about him feels wrong other than how different he is, but that's more because of her experience than him.

She can almost feel the butterflies from the summer of her childhood flutter in her belly. Almost.

He helps her remember what things are supposed to be like. He kisses her forehead and holds her tight when she's upset, and it feels correct. The winds howl outside the walls and the cold finds its way under their skin, but with him it's almost like it's summer again, and things are not so bad after all. She's not quite lost, not quite broken; all can be rebuilt.

Of course, it's hard to forget the Others.

The 'almost' succumbs to a fever, and all sense of hope boils away as soon as reports come from the Wall. There are wights. Many. And they need Jon, more than her, so she lets him go.

But if he doesn't come back, Spring seems like one of Old Nan's tales; entertaining to listen to, but nothing more than imagination.

On the day he leaves, she refuses herself to cry. She says she's fine, holds him tightly to stop the words coming out of his mouth, and to quell the hunger that tells her to hold him close forever. She can't, she will not let herself, when she has everything she's ever asked for.

In her rooms, later, she cries into her pillow until she falls asleep. She is woken by nightmares throughout the night, and it's always him, running away from something or someone, and her struggling to follow. She reaches for him in her sleep, but he is never there.

Days turn to weeks, weeks turn to months. Grey turns to black, cold turns colder, and Sansa turns into her winter-self, the shrewd Lady who knows her keep. Sansa settles into ruling Winterfell, though the cold is ever present, loneliness hanging over her like a cloud.

Warmth doesn't mean warmth anymore, it means simply not cold, and Sansa misses Jon so much she fears she will go out of her mind. He's always present in her heart, to such a degree the pain feels fresh every time she remembers he isn't truly there, that he is in danger some other place.

She can scarce believe it when they win. She feels hollow, like the world emptied itself of horror but the shell is still grey and rotting. Spring and summer have been away so long she doesn't know what to expect, who she or anyone else is, if she will ever know anything other than being so alone.

But when she sees him again, that feeling grips at her. Something sweet, thawing her heart. The faint taste of sun, still watery in her memory. 

But there is nothing watery in the way his arms wrap around her. He buries his face in her hair, muffling his sobs, and Sansa can feel her tears freeze on her cheeks. She laughs. It doesn't make any sense.

Because right there, in that courtyard covered in snow, spring is holding her together again.


	12. A while longer (moved)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this story has been moved here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12891057

Yeah. Like I said, this story has been moved.


	13. A pestilence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon x Sansa. Sansa catches a fever. Jon realises who he’s truly fighting for.

He doesn't see it at first. She stands to greet him with the others, tall and regal, face like ice. He knew she wouldn't be happy, so it isn't a surprise. But when he comes closer, he sees that she is slightly too pale, eyes glassy even in the dim winter light.

She talks to him, but just barely, and her voice is stoic and unused, like all her words have to be pulled out of somewhere deep inside her. She constantly clasps her hands in front of her, as if willing them not to shake.

No one else notices. No one else questions it. He's too much of a coward to ask.

It isn't until she faints in front of them, a week after their arrival, that they truly know something is wrong. Jon rushes to carry her to her rooms, sits idly by as Sam examines her, and he takes her hand once she wakes again. Sam rests a hand on her forehead. "She's burning," he says, and Sansa turns towards him, lips moving in fevered dreams, trying to talk but no words breaking through the fog of sickness.

He shushes her, tucks thin strands of hair sticking to her forehead away, sits with ears sharp until they are told there is nothing to do but wait. Him, Arya and Bran take turns watching over her, Sam always close at hand.

She stays in her fever for a week. Arya feels guilty she didn't notice it before. "Of course she would ignore it,” she says, frowning. “She's stupid like that. Doesn't know when to step back and let others do her work." Arya looks so sad, and Jon takes her hand, squeezes it. "She works too hard," he agrees, and Arya sniffles. Bran is ever quiet and thoughtful, sitting by her side.

They give her medicine by Sam's instructions, honeyed water for nutrition and milk of the poppy if she grows so restless Sam is worried she'll wear herself out. Whenever she wakes and he's with her, she turns to him and tries talking, but either her mouth is too dry or she falls back asleep again. But once, in a moment of clarity, she grabs his hand hard.

"Jon," she says fiercely, like a ghost with a vengeance, "How could you do this?" She's breathless even from this, voice raw and hurt. "We don't deserve this. We don't." Her grip on him loosens, and a tear slips over her cheek before she goes limp in sleep again. Jon feels tears of his own burn in his eyes. What has he done?

 _What if I lose her?_ he thinks, desperately. _What if this is the last memory she has of me?_ And then, selfishly, _What if this is the last memory I'll have of her?_

He won't let it end like this. She has to live. He has to make things right.

She wakes on the seventh day, and doesn't fall asleep again for hours. She is still assigned to strict rest by Sam, but the fever has broken, and all that's left is to heal her weak body. She smiles when they all file in to see her, Arya sitting close and looking over her, Bran smiling from his wheelchair. Jon is last to join them, and he doesn't know what to do. He doesn't fit into the picture in front of him.

"Jon," Sansa says, looks up at him with hazy eyes, voice only slightly weaker than usual. It hits him like a boulder, the relief that she is fine, won't leave him just yet, and he knows what he must do. "I'll make it right, Sansa," he vows. "To all of you. I'm so sorry. I'll fix it, I promise."

And she smiles at him, a weak, sad smile that's almost enough to break his heart. "Oh, Jon,” she says fondly, and so sadly. “You can't fix this. You know you can't.” The words are like weights, dragging him further down into cold water. But Sansa’s eyes are not hostile. There’s a layer of sympathy there, of love.

She hesitates a second before talking again, something like hope creeping into her eyes, making her voice lighter. “I'd rather have you stay here with us,” she says tentatively, “for now. For a moment." It’s a plea, a request, made to mend things that have been broken.

His mouth goes dry, and he can't deny her this. He nods, finds a chair and sits next to Bran. They sit like that a while, Sansa asking about the castle and all that's happened while she's been gone. Jon holds her hand, stroking his thumb over her knuckles, and vows to himself never to put himself, or any of them, in a situation like this again.

Sam comes in shortly and orders them all out, and Jon knows then, who he needs to hold onto in this world, what he is fighting for when he's leaving for the North.

The day they leave, Sansa is there to send them off. She stands without help, her eyes heavy but still bright, tears shining in them. "Be careful," she tells her sister, and Arya promises to be. Jon steps in front of her.

He kisses her cheek. "I will do anything I can to come back to you. And we'll rule like we were supposed to." She smiles, nods as she takes his hand in hers. "Yes," she says, and her voice is strong, like this is the very moment the sickness rips itself from her entirely.

He leaves. But he comes back. She is not ill when he returns, but she holds him to her like he is, and there is something fevered about how his lips move over her when they are alone.


End file.
